


Gentleman? Well, Let's Not be Hasty.

by thescribblenaut



Series: The Details; Gory And Otherwise [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Humour, Prompt works, Whump, no smut though, the full works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:47:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2141133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescribblenaut/pseuds/thescribblenaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes, the brains behind the royalty and bravado and grandeur, doesn't drive. It's not that he can't. It's not that he won't. It's that he's not allowed to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Witnesses, Politics, and Back-Seat-Drivers

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, the characters are not mine. Nor are the rights. And I make no profit. And unbelievably, the BBC still haven't asked me to do any of the above. In actual fact, some of these ideas aren't even mine, because I'm taking prompts, and I will, of course, be crediting anyone who happens to be nice enough to give me a prompt.
> 
> How to prompt? Stick it in a comment, because I'll notice those, and it's easy to reply to (when the button works, which it wasn't a while ago- I'm sorry to anyone who didn't get a reply). Any prompts that I think are basically the same, I will combine, and credit each and every prompter. There isn't a word limit, unless that's in the prompt, so there's more than enough Sherlock madness to go round. 
> 
> This fic idea (below) was mine, because I thought that I, as the author, should get the ball rolling. Party started. Any phrase of the same or a similar meaning you like.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon 1: The reason Mycroft is driven everywhere, instead of driving himself, isn’t that he can’t drive. No, he’s very good at driving, thankyouverymuch. The reason he doesn’t do so, is because Mycroft Tiberius Holmes, the man who can put up with embassies and ambassadors alike, has a terrible case of road rage. He shouts profanities and threats at the windscreen until his face is blue, endlessly amusing Sherlock and the other Holmeses. Mainly Sherlock. In fact, once, Mycroft became so angry, he was actually two minutes away from literally bursting a blood vessel. Which alarmed Anthea and the other staff rather a lot, so they decided he was never to drive again. If it could possibly be avoided. They draw straws to see whose turn it is to take him somewhere. 
> 
>  
> 
> Because Mycroft Holmes is also a back-seat driver.

Anthea looked solemnly at the four people watching her apprehensively. Tobias Smark, Elise Wild, Benjamin Rinder, and Jack Richardson. Each a chauffeur. Each unfortunate enough to have their current job. Sherlock, sat on the corner of a nearby desk, eyed the four straws in her hand with barely concealed amusement.

 

Pause. Explain.

 

The four drivers Mycroft had at his beck and call were all patient. They were all well-paid. They were all good-natured, calm people. But Mycroft Holmes’ backseat driving was a thing to behold, and could probably force even _Ghandi_ into sticking duct tape over the politician’s mouth. The only person, other than Sherlock, to survive it was Greg Lestrade, and that was because he was a _saint_. Sherlock had managed because he just found it hilarious, and _knew_ he was a rubbish driver anyway. And cared not.

 

Basically, Mycroft Holmes, is absolutely terrible, in a car.

 

Hence the drawing of the straws. Anthea always held the straws, Sherlock always acted as witness (for the longest drives, anyway). The drivers always drew them, and the shortest straw meant imminent doom. Today, Tobias drew first. Then Elise. Jack. And finally, Benjamin. Anthea let her hand drop to her side, catching a tiny smirk on Sherlock’s face in the corner of her eye. Admittedly, the whole thing would seem a tad ridiculous, if you never had to do it yourself, or simply didn’t care. Anthea herself was just glad she didn’t have a license.

“Compare your straws.” She instructed, following tradition. The drivers each held their straw by the very end, holding them next to each other. Tobias almost immediately groaned, dropping his hand and clapping the other to his forehead as he collapsed into the comfy chair they’d bought, specifically for this purpose. The others breathed a sigh of relief.

“You have my commiserations, Tobias.” Sherlock stated from his perch on the desk, most definitely smirking now. The sadist. Tobias looked, for all the world, like he’d had his execution date sent to him as he looked up at Sherlock.

“You have no idea of the _pain._ ” He rasped. “ _Six. Hours._ Going through the city centre. Right through _rush hour.”_

His hands made claws in the air in front of him, Jake patting him on the back.

“Hard luck, mate.” He said genuinely.

“You’re doing it for the greater good.” Elise added feebly.

“Just think, you’ve got another _two hours_ before you have to go.” Benjamin told him cheerily. Sherlock snorted inelegantly.

“In which you can think about the life choices you made to come to this point.” He mocked happily. Anthea jabbed her sharp elbow into his ribs, winding him.

“What he means to say, is that you can think of all the things you can do afterwards to reward yourself for not killing Mr Holmes.” She covered for him, wondering, yet again, why the drivers had chosen _him_ out of everyone available, to be the witness. Sherlock shot her a look of utter loathing as he began to breathe again, reaching for his coat and scarf.

“Well, I’m off. Cases don’t wait forever.” He told them, leaving with a swish of his coat hem. Anthea checked her phone, finding yet another demand from Mycroft.

“I’d better follow suite.” She informed the others, swiftly walking out of the room.

“Good luck, Tobias.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it, and please comment (with prompts? Please?) and leave kudos because they are the gold to my Smaug.
> 
> I should mention that the characters, the programme, and any other branded thing you recognise in here is not mine. I call dibs on tea and biscuits, though (yes, I know, that idea's been around a lot longer than me, it was a joke).


	2. Not drunk, no. Extraordinarily Tipsy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil has a thing. You talk to a teenager about their younger self, and they will cringe. So does Phillip. Because he was an idiot. What was he thinking? Yes, he realised that Sherlock was a genius, and an innocent of all crimes one at that, but getting a photograph with him? And then begging for a signature? He can’t reason that one away, even with the alcohol levels. Oh yeah. And Sherlock remembers it. Every. Horrific. Second of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters are not mine, nor is the show, and I do not profit from this. Otherwise I'd be richer. And I still haven't been given an offer from the BBC...I'm losing hope. 
> 
> Okay, so nobody prompted me, sadly, so it's another of my own ideas. Either anybody reading this really likes me and my mad brain, or is trying to avoid encouraging me (I really hope that's just the joke it was intended as). So yeah. 
> 
> Thank you to those who read and left kudos, it's really appreciated. I've realised that I don't mention kudos a lot, but I do take notice! So thank you for that show of support!
> 
> Although I really would like some prompts. Pretty please with a donut on top. 
> 
> I should also mention that when I say 'Phil', I mean Anderson. Who, I have decided, is a very childish drunk. Sorry, Phil. I apologise for the oncoming stor- headache. I mean headache. Yes.

Phil could admit that he’d possibly had a _teensy tiny_ bit too much to drink. Just a bit. Not that he was drunk. Just very, _very_ , tipsy. That was it.

 

It was all Greg’s fault, anyway. And J- what was it? James? No. Jake? Jam? J? Jo- Joh- _John!_ There. John. It was their fault. And his parents. It was their fault that it was his birthday, and he’d had a rubbish one, and Greg had found out (Phil still didn’t know how, really, the man was a deductive _genius_ \- nothing compared to Sherlock though, seriously. Sherlock was just incredible. The most genius genius to ever genius. Was that allowed? Grammatically speaking? Oh well.)

 

His glass was empty. Phil examined this fact _very_ thoroughly, from all sides. He looked through the glass, in the glass, around the glass (and he kept going for a while with that one, because you can never tell when a circle stops, and glasses are like circles, the tricky bastards. Sherlock would be a circle, for that reason). He even held it up to the light and looked through it from the bottom. And tipped it upside down.

 

His glass was empty.

 

Phil waved it at the bartender, who gave him a considering look before pouring another for him.

“Last one mate, okay?” He said slowly. Phil shook his head.

“But it’s my _birthday_.” He whined. “And it’s been _terrible_ so far, and I didn’t get a single present, and only two cards, and-“

“Yeah, it’s still your last drink mate.” The bartender interrupted. Phil scowled, and blew a raspberry at him behind his back. Stupid bartender. He was mean. There was probably a plot to give Phil an awful birthday. Bullies.

 

Phil clunked his head onto the bar, watching Greg and J...Thingummy talking together nearby. _They_ were having a good time, and it wasn’t even their birthday. Birthdays? Should it be plural when there’s more than one person involved? Probably. Start again? Psshhh, no. As Phil watched, someone in a long coat, with curly hair swept into the pub, immediately walking over to Greg and Jam.

“Sherlock!” Phil greeted happily, walking over. Or at least, he tried to. His legs felt funny. Sherlock looked up with an expression similar to one of a rabbit-in-the-headlights. Phil couldn’t imagine why.

“I _knew_ you’d remember! You'd _definitely_ remember my birthday!” He continued, wavering his way over to the detective. Sherlock stood up straighter, looking taller.

“You’re drunk.” He stated, wrinkling his nose.

“Tipsy. Not drunk. I haven’t been sick yet.” Phil corrected, slinging an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder, spilling beer in his hair as he went. Sherlock flinched away, brushing at his head.

“Oh, God, sorry!” Phil apologised, going closer to bat the beer out of Sherlock’s hair. He managed it, and even though he was being gentle, he managed to hit the other man square in the face. Which was a bit not good, in retrospect. Sherlock certainly didn’t seem to think so. He had one hand over one eye, and the other was glaring quite a bit.

“Sorry.”

“Maybe you’ve had enough to drink, Phil.” Greg said, going for Phil’s (half empty) glass.

“Nooo.” Phil protested, swinging his glass away again, splashing the rest of his drink all over Sherlock. The doctor person (short, blonde one) snorted into his own drink, making Sherlock glare even harder at him.

“You shouldn’t laugh at people. It’s not nice, you could hurt their feelings.” Phil explained patiently. The man stifled his smirk.

“No, you’re quite right, and I’m very sorry.” He apologised. “You know what I think would make things better? Another drink.”

“ _Absolutely_ not.” Sherlock growled, snatching the remains of Phil’s drink away and plonking it on the next table. Phil pouted, before having a bright idea.

“I know! Because you guys are being nice to me now, we should get a photo!” He decided. Sherlock shook his head, beer droplets flying off his hair. (Phil would later wonder why he chose to remember that.) Greg spoke up.

“Sherlock’s a bit camera-shy, Phil.”

“It won’t _bite_ you.” Phil said with a grin at Sherlock. He was met with a very thunderous glare, which told him that Sherlock would _not_ , be in any photographs.

“Spoilsport.” He muttered.

“Oi! Can you lot get him out of here?!” The bartender called, suddenly. Phil tried to do a Sherlock-glare, but somehow his facial features had all gone out of sync, and he settled for scowling. He was good at that. He’d been told so.

_Anderson_ _, if you tried as hard at your job as you do at scowling, we might actually get some results from you._

Phil frowned. Now he thought about it, maybe that wasn’t such a great compliment. He suddenly realised that he was being dragged outside, and decided to go without any fuss.

 

The cold night air made him feel slightly sickly, though, and before he knew it he was throwing up. Sherlock managed to dodge it, which fascinated Phil, so he aimed for him slightly. Sherlock crossed the street. Spoilsport.

“Sherlooock?” Phil called. “Can I have an autograph?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Pretty pelase?”

“I’m not sure you’d even _recognise_ pretty at the moment, mate.” Greg commented, supporting him. The John person went and joined Sherlock, and the two of them left, the short one waving to Greg and then batting at Sherlock’s drenched hair. Phil’s last thought, before he passed out, was:

_Why does **he** get to do that? It’s **my** beer._

 

* * *

When he woke up, Phil found himself on his couch, a short note next to an aspirin and a glass of water. He quickly downed the pill, before his headache had a chance to fully develop, and read the note, trying to remember what the _hell_ had happened to him last night. He didn’t usually get so drunk.

 

_Hey, Phil, hope your hangover isn’t too bad. Sherlock says you’re welcome to it. I think he’s a bit pissed off about the whole ‘beer to the head’ thing. Don’t know if you remember any of it, you were pretty hammered. Very nearly off your head. Anyway. We got you back to your place at around ten-ish, you’d passed clean out by the time Sherlock and John went to get a cab. So yeah, good luck managing your head. Hope the night was worth it!_

_-Greg_

Oh Phil could remember it. In _excruciating_ detail. He lowered his head onto his coffee table with a dull _thump._ And spilled water all over the place.

_Shit._   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Phillip. I might make it up to him one day. Although my sympathy's more with Sherlock, for two reasons. One, I just find Anderson vaguely irritating. Two, I have heard from a friend that beer in your hair is sticky, and warm, and the smell stays for weeks. 
> 
> But as the writer, I cannot let pity get in the way of the story. Therefore, there is likely to be more silliness in the future. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and, as ever, please leave comments and kudos if you liked. Constructive criticism, great. Nastiness, not so great. Please prompt! It doesn't have to be anything more than a word!
> 
> P.S. Whilst looking for a title for this chapter, I searched 'humourous quotes about drunkeness'. I clicked on the second option down, and started scrolling. I gave up ten minutes later, the phrase 'Jack, you've debauched my sloth.' I have no idea where it came from, now, but that was one of the quotes. I have no with to know how that phrase came into being.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it, and please comment, and prompt! Constructive criticism is welcomed, mere unpleasantness not so much.
> 
> Title comes from this quote:
> 
> 'My father told me that if you saw a man in a Rolls Royce you could be sure he was not a gentleman unless he was the chauffeur.'  
> -Unknown


End file.
